


The Mask of the Ordinary

by oneinspats



Series: coveting desperate things [1]
Category: Discworld
Genre: Gen, I didn't mean for it to get like this yet here we are, There are descriptions of violence and assault but they are very vague, and do not involve any of the main characters, it's just Downey describing a past serial killer, this got out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 13:25:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16833499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: The following are excerpts from the working memoir manuscript of Lord Downey, Master of the Assassins' Guild.The contents of this particular excerpt include the Incident of The Murder Flat [working title] and some musings on growing up during the height of the Quayside Killer.The Patrician would like it known that anyone who uses any of the names assigned to him in this work, not counting his birth name, could become very intimately acquainted with the Scorpion Pit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For anon on tumblr who asked for "Vetinari and Downey are roommates and one is convinced that they're living next to a serial killer." 
> 
> NB: The book Downey references is "I'll Be Gone in the Dark: One Woman's Obsessive Search for the Golden State Killer" by Michelle McNamara. All the quotes are from that book and I only changed one line {car to carriage} to suit the world.  
> I spent middle-school and high-school in California and both the Golden State Killer and the Zodiac Killer loomed large in my teenage years. And recently in Toronto a serial killer was caught who targeted the queer community. So this has been on my mind lately.

One of life’s unexpected turn-ups was the time I found myself living with Vetinari when we were in our mid-twenties. While the fact that the Patrician attended the Assassins Guild is well known much of his early years are a blank slate for the denizens of this fine city. A state of affairs I believe Vetinari to be rather keen on maintaining. Naturally, I am here to put a small cat amongst the metaphorical pigeons.

Having returned from his long tour of the disc Vetinari found himself the target of Lord Snapcase’s undesirable attentions. As the then-patrician made it clear he wished to sever Vetinari’s head from his shoulders, or any other effective method of shuffling the man off the mortal coil, Vetinari was in a pretty predicament.

That is when my good friend Ludo had a stunning idea. We were drinking at the Beast (a gem of an establishment that is sadly no longer with us, RIP) when a conversation was struck up about Vetinari’s sticky living situation.

‘I can’t stay at the guild. The patrician keeps trying to kill me’ said he.

‘Rum luck, that,’ said Ludo.

‘Indeed. One could do without such things in one’s life.’

‘I say. Do you know where you’re going to lay low?’

‘No clue,’ replied Vetinari.

‘Downey’s getting a flat.’

At this moment I kicked Ludo under the table. Ludo, apparently unable to understand my less-than subtle hints at him to shut up, barreled on in the end suggesting that Vetinari and I share a flat.

You must understand, at this time in our lives the patrician and I weren’t on the best of terms. I had the unfortunate habit of being a veritable boar of a boy and he the unfortunate luck of being a regular target of various and sundry verbal and physical assaults. Namely, I tended to insult him by calling him a scag and "dog-botherer" (one of life's more unfortunate nick-names) and throwing the closest projectile to hand at his head.

I’ve luckily matured a great deal since then.

The details of how we hashed out the living situation are murky for several pitchers of beer were involved but it was eventually settled that for the sake of my less-than-full purse and Vetinari’s desire to remain alive, we would share a flat.

**///**

It didn’t take long to settle on a suitable accommodations for the two of us. The housing market at the time was very much in our favour and we located a nice-enough flat in the more artistic side of town at the time. While it was perhaps run-down it was discreet and affordable which met both of our more pressing needs. It also had two bedrooms, a shared bathroom down the hall, a reasonable kitchen and a large enough room to claim as a work space and living room.

Moving in was easy enough and we spent the first night attempting to put some order to the space. This is when I learned that the patrician and I have very strong, and contradictory views, on the correct ordering of the cutlery drawer.

Taking a break I decanted to the living room and poured wine for us both in the only available cup-wear which turned out to be a tea-cup and an empty jam jar.

‘I made you a wine,’ said I.

Vetinari stuck his head around the corner. ‘You don’t make people wine, Downey.’

‘Just take it.’

He did.

A few details to set the scene. Our flat was located on the second floor of a house that had certainly seen grander and more wealthy times. So, cracked crenelations of ornate forest designs, faded wooden floors that needed a waxing, stained silk wallpaper of an uncertain pink hue. We ascertained from the landlady that sharing our floor was a gentleman who lived alone next to us and a young, recently married couple opposite. On the first floor was an elderly woman and her young grandson and another elderly woman who lived alone with an absurd amount of birds. On the ground floor were two families and the landlady herself.

The wall in the living room and kitchen was shared with that of our single gentleman next door. Never before has an uncertain hue of pink held such ominous presence as the wallpaper born by that too-thin divider.

We were partway through the wine bottle when a grinding noise started up. It came distinctly from the other-side of the shared wall. It was mechanical in nature and at first, not noticeable but once you heard it you could not unhear it.

I frowned at the wall, ‘what’s that?’

‘It’s our mystery neighbour,’ Vetinari said amiably.

‘Freak,’ I replied with great wit.

The grinding continued for half an hour. It needled in so our determined conversation took on a desperate edge that one gains when attempting to block out a sound.

Then, it abruptly stopped. For the rest of the evening we heard nothing from our neighbour.

**///**

Part of living with someone in a more intimate space than a dormitory situation, which is what we had at the guild, is learning to compromise. An easier task described than actually acted upon, especially when the two people in question are more stubborn than most.

The greatest struggle in our year and a half in this particular flat was the Great Couch Purchase Debacle, as it has been subsequently named by our current Patrician. Although I am doubtful he will admit to naming it thusly. If you ask, he will probably place blame of the unfortunate name on the shoulders of Mr. Wilson, known as Willis by most, or perhaps Mr. Gentile, known as Sump.

Regardless, I had decided that since we were living in a flat that was straight out of a novel about debauched and lackadaisical youths misspending their father’s money we should lean into the aesthetic.

‘I want something with personality,’ I said one day over coffee. ‘Something velvet in royal blue or emerald green.’

‘We’re not getting a velvet couch, Downey.’

‘Why not?’

Vetinari did not elaborate. He only continued to insist that we were not getting a velvet couch. Or a couch with certain width arm rests. Or a couch with too many buttons on the back. Or a couch with ostentatious wood designs on the edges. At this point I gave up declaring that this is ridiculous, a person cannot have so many requirements for a couch. A couch for their slightly shitty flat that they’re hiding in so as to avoid certain death-by-mad-Patrician.

Vetinari was undeterred. He finished his list of requirements with the conclusion of, ‘and in the end, it needs good face feel.’

'What does that even mean?'

‘It’s self explanatory.’

‘You’re such a weirdo, Dog-botherer.' 

At that moment we heard a loud thud from our neighbour’s flat. We both looked at the wall. There followed a dragging sound. We continued staring at the wall.

Silence.

Hammering began but not against the wall as one would expect. But rather, it sounded as if the hammer was hitting something soft.

My thoughts immediately turned towards the grotesque and morbid. These were the days of Snapcase where public health was not taken into consideration during the disposal of bodies of those deemed to be “enemies of the state.” Snapecase, with the flare for the dramatic than many mad dictators seem to possess, often had the poor unfortunates who crossed him strung up with the sign of “per lo stato” (for the state/for reasons of state, depending on if one goes for literal or translation of _essence_ ) around their necks.

What I’m saying is that there was an air of morbidity that infused the city.

I whispered, ‘he’s doing something with a body.’

Vetinari didn’t reply which I took to mean he agreed with me.

‘I think our neighbour’s a serial killer.’

Vetinari blinked. He opened his mouth, squinted, then shook his head. ‘They’re not a serial killer.’

‘They’re absolutely a serial killer.’

We returned to listening to the hammering in silence. Then we listened to the dragging noise that followed. Then the eerie nothingness that came after.

Suddenly, it felt like it was too much to stare at the wall so we busied ourselves opening books and pretending to read.

‘That was really spooky, DB, you can’t deny it.’

‘We’re trained assassins, this is the last thing we should find spooky. In any case, I highly doubt our neighbour's a serial killer. Statistically speaking it’s not likely.’

I can assure you, this did little to convince me. 

**///**

In the two days that followed our neighbour played music almost non-stop. It was so loud it felt as if the gramophone was in our living room rather than his.

Standing by the stove I pointed out that only someone who is clearly a serial killer would play the gramophone so loudly for two days straight. It was to drown out the muffled screams of his victims.

My roommate's only concession to this argument was that our neighbour’s taste in music demonstrated a possible loose hold upon reality. No one sane listened to Giles & Simmerson operettas on repeat. He said, ‘not even you’re that mad.’

‘Thanks,’ I replied before pulling out a fag.

The pasta simmered on the stove and the opening song of Pirates of Brindisi began again.

**///**

Part of the problem both Vetinari and I faced was a lack of adequate work. My teaching schedule was light due to it being the holidays and the consistent dwindling of the guild. Vetinari had even less to occupy him save for self-assigned projects.

This, coupled with my lack of adequate funds due to an unfortunate rift with my father (see footnote 10 in chapter 4 where it’s briefly explained), meant that we spent an unhealthy amount of time inside the flat.

In my fixation on our neighbour I purchased a book about one of Ankh-Morpork’s more famous serial killers titled _I’ll Be Found in the Dark._ Well written and detailed I will admit it perhaps put me into a more paranoid mind-set than I would have been in otherwise.

Vetinari’s own paranoia, much more well founded at that time, only served to increase mine. We spent weeks of that summer being prisoners of our own making unable to do much against the creeping sense of dread.

We became fixated on the wall. Me to a greater degree than him but still. It occupied our thoughts.

One day I stood before the shared wall smoking and contemplating the patterns. Vetinari sat on the couch (velvet, mustard yellow) and stared at me staring at the wall. Every so often I would press an ear to listen.

Ashing in a whiskey tumbler I hummed to myself in thought. More out of a need to perform the action of thinking than having any sort of useful thoughts.

I knocked on the wall and heard the hollow sound of plaster. I thought about how the building was laid out and reasoned that once-upon-a-time our living room and the room on the other side of the wall had been one in the same.

Unable to deduce anything further I retreated to lounge on the couch next to Vetinari.

‘Fag?’ I offered. ‘I rolled a bunch this morning.’

‘Sure.’

We smoked and stared. 

The stained, silk wallpaper was a faded pink with its poppies and hollyhock print was beginning to possess. I had dreams about it. In order to attempt to disrupt the hypnotising nature of it Vetinari had purchased a cheap still-life picture and hung it up in the centre. It didn’t do its office.

‘There’s absolutely a rational explanation,’ Vetinari said.

‘Yes, he’s a murderer.’

‘No, he’s not.’

‘I told Bogus about it. He agrees with me.’

‘Bogus?’

‘Some bloke I know from the Thieves Guild.’

Vetinari rolled his eyes as I once again got up to listen at the wall.

‘Anything?’ Vetinari asked.

‘A clinking - dishes I think.’

I returned to the couch.

**///**

The Quayside Killer, which is who _I’ll Be Found in the Dark_ is about, was at his height fifteen years before Vetinari and I took up residence in our flat. His name was Raymond Foxe and I had long been obsessed with his case the way one becomes obsessed with something that cast strange shadows over one’s childhood.

At his height two people a week were being assaulted or murdered or both in their homes in Ankh-Morpork. I was eight years old when his acts became a topic of household conversations across the neighbourhood.

My mother had every door in the house triple locked and insisted my father sleep with a crossbow by the bed. On her more paranoid nights she would round all of us children up, me and my three sisters, and insist we sleep in one room and place pillows beneath our sheets to confuse the Quayside killer should he break in.

No longer were we allowed to roam the streets until an hour past sundown which had been our habit as children. We were always to travel in pairs with the requirement that either Magda or myself, as the two eldest, be in accompaniment with our younger siblings Laure and Sicily.

The Quayside Killer was a classic home-invader. He’d canvas his target. Often entering homes when the family was out to better understand the layout of the house. He’d memorize family pictures, learn their names, habits and routines.

Once he decided on his victims he’d send them anonymous letters to heighten their sense of fear the contents of which can only be described as “disturbing.” He’d disable locks. Booby trap the house in secret, during the quiet of the night or in the safety of the workday. He hid his weapons in the rooms he intended to murder in. This meant that when you woke there’d be a bright lantern light in your face, a masked man before you.

He was always a stranger to his victim but you were not a stranger to him.

They eventually caught the Quayside Killer thirteen years after his spate of terror had ended. He was active from when I was five to twelve then - nothing. As is so often the case with serial killers.

My mother spent my childhood convinced we would be next. He targeted two houses on our street, another two a block over. We knew several of the victims. That sort of fear gets under your skin and takes up residence in the back of your mind.

When I declared my intention of entering the Assassins’ Guild my father was furious for his own reasons; my mother relieved. She said, ‘at least you’ll know what to do. Should anything ever happen.’

When they caught Raymond Foxe I waited with anticipation to learn what his occupation was for Ludo and I had a bet going that he was going to be one of three things:

  * Cop
  * Assassin
  * Doctor



He ended up being the first of the three.

 _I’ll Be Found in the Dark_ was published before Raymond Foxe was caught so the ending is open. As this was the case, the author wrote a letter to the killer, “One day soon, you’ll hear a carriage pull up to your curb. You’ll hear footsteps coming up your front walk. The doorbell rings. No side gates are left open. You’re long past leaping over a fence. Take one of your hyper, gulping breaths. Clench your teeth. Inch timidly toward the insistent bell. This is how it ends for you.

‘You’ll be silent forever, and I’ll be gone in the dark,’ you threatened a victim once.  
  
Open the door. Show us your face.  
  
Walk into the light.”

**///**

More months passed and I remained focused on our neighbour. The odd noises we heard at all hours, the occasional strange smell that was emitted in the hallway.

One of the days with the smell I knocked on the door of the young couple who lived across from us. The wife opened the door.

‘Hey, my names Downey. I live at number seven across from you.’

She eyed me suspiciously and I admired her lack of trust. A wise woman.

‘Pleasure, I’m sure,’ she said. She didn’t offer her name. Most intelligent.

‘Have you noticed a smell in the hallway lately?’

She nodded, she said she assumed it was just a typical Ankh-Morpork summer smell. Her husband said that this wasn’t an uncommon thing in the city.

‘I see,’ I said. ‘Have you met our neighbour?’ I indicated the door.

‘No, though I’ve seen him here and there. He always buys his matches from the corner stall where my Terrence gets his.’

‘We’re new is all,’ I explained. ‘Just wondering if it might be him.’

She shrugged, began sliding behind the door frame in the universal language of ending a conversation. I took the hint and bid good-day.

During this time Vetinari began making a point of telling me how there were no signs of a serial killer being active in Ankh-Morpork. He said that when the Quayside Killer had been active people _knew_. Everyone had been aware that there was someone breaking in and attacking people.

‘Yes,’ I countered. ‘But not everyone is so blatant in their ways. What if this chap is preying on vulnerable women? Like that Ripper fellow from back in the day. The one who killed all those seamstresses.’

‘People would still know.’

‘If a seamstress or a homeless man goes missing and is buried in the walls of the flat next door to us no one is going to notice. That’s the whole point. They’re invisible.’

Vetinari would not be convinced. He kept saying that I had no evidence other than a few strange noises and an overactive imagination. I resented this remark and informed him of it.

We quarreled.

Unable to leave due to poor weather Vetinari made it clear the kitchen was now his domain and he was not to be disturbed. I said, ‘fine, be that way’ and took a bottle of wine to my room to drink alone.

**///**

The next morning brought continued rain. Detestable. I needed to get out of the flat but there was nowhere to go. Ludo was out of town visiting family in Klatch. Willis was on a job in Genua. Sump and Seb weren’t the sort of people I wished to spend time with on my own. The thought of going to a cafe or bar palled and my purse quietly begged me not to. 

So that left me to nurse my misery and my hangover.

I stumbled out around eleven and procured coffee from the pot Vetinari had made. He was standing at the stove attempting to make pancakes. Occasionally he adjusted the fire. We were decidedly not looking at one another, the way one does after the embarrassment of a stupid argument.

‘I put blueberries in them,’ he said.

I figured this counted as an apology and so therefore a victory. I replied, ‘thanks’ then drank the coffee.

One of my faults (I have many, Vetinari has informed me on multiple occasions to which I generally respond: says the pot to the kettle. The patrician does not appreciate this so I don’t recommend anyone else doing it) is being unable to let something go once it has ingrained itself into my head.

I got up and stood by the wall. Vetinari sighed. I knew that sigh well. It was a sigh that said, “gods not this again.”

‘Maybe we should break in,’ I suggested. I looked over to Vetinari who was prodding a pancake. ‘And you have to wait till the batter bubbles before you flip them.’

‘No back carriage cooking.’

I ignored the comment, ‘otherwise they won’t be brown enough. Anyway, _I’m_ going to break in.’

Vetinari wore an expression I believe he hoped would convey how stupid he found the idea. I ignored that too and detailed my plan to him. Considering I had just come up with it in the last ten minutes, and was decidedly hungover, it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve concocted.

I was persistent, however, and desperate for a partner-in-crime which meant Vetinari as my options were limited. By tea-time he was half-convinced. He kept putting in caveats of “ _if_ we do this” and “ _should this happen_.” By the time he agreed he was telling me it was only to put my paranoia to rest. I was duly chuffed at his acquiesce.

He clarified his position, ‘this is just to prove that our neighbour isn’t a murderer.’

**///**


	2. Chapter 2

I again take a moment to appraise the audience of our skills. Vetinari and I were well trained assassins versed in all manner of skills that range from basic breaking and entering to more elaborate forms of murder to arson, black mail, driving-a-person-to-self-inhumation, among other more and less savoury things.

This is to say: breaking in wasn’t difficult for us.

Having worked myself up to a rather fantastic level of hype around our neighbour I wasn’t sure what to expect with regards to his living space. I knew better than to expect any sort of obvious declaration of his sordid activities but I was sure there would be something I could point to and say, ‘see, proof of his serial killing ways.’

We entered and found it an uneasy place to be. The flat was stale from the lack of ventilation and the walls a faded beige that almost tended towards grey. No wallpaper, unlike ours. I pointed this out whispering, ‘paint is easier to clean.’

A thin rug was placed in the living room with no real design on it. A corner was overturned. The furniture was old but well-made and covered in white canvas excepting the kitchen table. It gave one the feeling of a dead woman’s house. Something I would have expected to see in a novel about a dowager living as a recluse after her husband died and in the end it turns out _she’s dead too_.

We moved from living room to kitchen and opened the ice-box to find it empty and room-temperature. The fire in both stove and grate were cold. Curtains were half-drawn on the street facing window. A deep green they gave the flat a bilious feel.

‘It’s very un-lived in,’ I whispered.

Vetinari nodded. His face was its usual poker expression so impossible to know what he was thinking. He has since informed me that the flat gave him unpleasant feelings but no more or less than any other unlived or uncanny space. He then explained liminal spaces for an hour. Our patrician, ladies and gentlemen, is a giant nerd [crossed out - very well educated.]

Vetinari then moved to the bedroom and I trailed after. Again, the un-lived in feeling continued. The bed was small and placed in the middle of the room, perfectly made and with a rag rug beneath it. The bedside table had a half-used candle and a box of matches. There was no armoire, no closet. The wash basin water was cold and toothbrush old. No other toiletries were laid out.

‘This can’t be his primary residence,’ Vetinari whispered. ‘It’s too sparse.’

‘That’s because it’s his murder flat.’

‘It’s not his murder flat.’

‘It’s a murder flat.’

Leaving I was in the midst of re-locking the door when Vetinari smacked my arm and hissed for me to hurry up. Someone had come in downstairs and was clearly walking up. Vetinari discreetly leaned over the bannister then kicked my boot.

It was clearly our neighbour.

As we scooted to our own door the man topped the stairs and went to his door. He wore a heavy coat and broad brimmed hat, an ensemble that was entirely too hot for the summer.

He turned and stared at us.

Vetinari and I stared back.

I then unlocked the door and pulled Vetinari inside.

‘He’s a murderer,’ I hissed as soon as the door was closed. ‘He’s absolutely a murderer.’

Vetinari attempted to convince me otherwise but I could tell by his lack of previous gusto on the subject he was beginning to come around to my way of thinking.

**///**

It was seven months into our thirteen month lease when I became convinced someone had entered our flat.

Vetinari and I had taken ourselves off to the Green Lounge if only for a change of scenery and to spend time around people who weren’t us. Ludo had recently come back to the city and was keen to hear about our “murder flat problem” in person for my letters only provided a brief gloss.

I finished the description of our information scouting (Vetinari: That’s a fascinating new take on breaking and entering) and strange stare-off with the mysterious neighbour and Ludo was in full agreement with me.

‘Absolutely a serial killer,’ Ludo said with gusto.

‘I disagree,’ Vetinari replied.

‘He makes suspicious noises, has a decidedly un-lived in flat, and wears clothing that will easily disguise him should he need to not be seen. Even if he isn’t a serial killer, sorry Will, he is at the very least up to something suspicious.’

I wasn’t sure how to take this caveat on his initial stance so instead went and bought another pitcher for the table.

Returning I found Vetinari explaining my growing paranoia he stopped when I sat down.

‘What?’ I asked.

Vetinari drank beer with a sullen expression.

‘You better pay me your third of the pitcher,’ I said.

He continued to sullenly sip.

‘He thinks you’re getting paranoid,’ Ludo said.

‘Nonsense. Just a healthy level.’

‘Look,’ Ludo sighed. ‘On a serious note, I am inclined to agree that this fellow seems rather suspicious. Serial killer? Perhaps not. But someone else it’d be wise not to cross? Quite possibly. The patrician has men everywhere, you know. Just -- be careful. Don’t do anything stupid.’

Vetinari muttered, ‘that requires Downey not doing anything ever.’

I glared and made a rude gesture.

Ludo leaned back with satisfied smile, ‘it’s good to back in Ankh-Morpork. Full of bickering friends, serial killer flats and mad patricians. Never a dull moment.’

It was after this foray into the wider world that I noticed things had been moved. We returned late, nearing midnight, and lit only a few candles but even in that dim gloom I could see something was wrong with the kitchen table and judging by his sudden tenseness, Vetinari had seen it too.

The books were piled wrong.

We were young men living alone which meant that while the flat wasn’t _disgusting_ it certainly wasn’t neat. Namely, there were books everywhere and discarded stockings because I could never seem to keep them in my room.

But Vetinari had a particular way in which he stacked his books and he would make unhappy noises if you rearranged them out of their assigned order. I knew this from personal experience of having attempted to clean only to clearly have upset his organization method.

We immediately went silent. He crept over to the table and inspected the offending stack while I moved deeper into the flat. A search revealed no one hiding and due to having read I will Be Gone In the Dark too many times, I made sure we searched diligently.

‘We’re alone,’ Vetinari said at length.

‘Check the weird crawl space in your closet one more time, Dog-botherer.’

‘Fine.’

He did. Nothing.

We didn’t speak about the incident but I could tell he was disconcerted. Aside from the natural violation one feels in having had one’s personal space invaded in such a way, there was the lingering fact that even Ludo, the more level headed of our friends, thought something afoot.

Perhaps it was the reminder that the patrician was still out there with a vendetta against all assassins but Vetinari in particular. For reasons that had, until recently, been unclear to me. Regardless, we rested in an uneasy fashion that night. More than once I woke and could hear Vetinari walking around the living room. The man had, and has, eclectic sleep patterns but this was a bit much, even for him.

I didn’t say anything about the break-in the next morning but we silently made our way to a grocer and bought an extra lock for the door.

///

In _I_ _Will Be Gone In the Dark_ the author writes, “If you commit murder and then vanish, what you leave behind isn’t just pain but absence, a supreme blankness that triumphs over everything else. The unidentified murderer is always twisting a doorknob behind a door that never opens. But his power evaporates the moment we know him. We learn his banal secrets. We watch as he’s led, shackled and sweaty, into a brightly lit courtroom as someone seated several feet higher peers down unsmiling, raps a gavel, and speaks, at long last, every syllable of his birth name.”

Raymond Foxe’s trial was a parade. It was one of the greatest feats of judicial spectacle I have ever seen and I’ve witnessed quite a few in my over five decades on the disc.

As a child he was the bogeyman who hid under the bed and in the back of my closet and indeed, he was scarier than any actual bogeyman. I couldn’t see him, no one could see him, no one could catch him - he was always right behind every citizen of Ankh-Morpork and yet never there when you turned to look.

What increased the Quayside Killer’s power was my mother’s obsessive fear of him. And while some would call it unfounded paranoia I don’t think it was that. She was a young mother with four children, three of whom were girls, an often absent husband, and a small frame. My mother could have been interspersed with any of his victims. She was a woman who was born and raised in Ankh-Morpork and so knew intimately what men were and are capable of - even if she perhaps did not have the language for it. 

When your parent is so afraid of something that fear, the power of that object, increases tenfold for the child.

My mother knew she would never be able to save us from Raymond Foxe should he have decided to target our family. She knew she wouldn’t stand a chance. So she purchased bolts and locks, hid us in different rooms, begged my father not to leave town for business, whispered stories and secrets about the untrustworthy men of the city with the other wives, mothers, daughters on our street. They were praying their network of warning and whispering would keep them safe.

It didn’t.

The closest Raymond Foxe got to our family was the murder of the Shutes down the street from us. It was a family of five: Mother Bessie Shute, Father Arnold Shute, Son Harry Shute, Daughter Liza Shute, Daughter Abbie Shute.

According to the trial Raymond Foxe cased the house for two weeks then, when everything was perfect, he enacted his plan. In each room he had hidden piano wire and wore thick workman’s gloves to ease the task of garotting his victims. He assaulted the women first then killed them. Including the children. Then men he merely murdered.

My mother grew up with Bessie Shute, maiden name Pires. I was on friendly terms with Harry. My sister Magda was close with Liza. My father worked with Arnold. We had dinners at each other’s houses and participated in neighbourhood activities. My parents didn’t speak about the Shute murders to any of us but as children we figured out the pertinent details and then some.

During the trial one of Raymond Foxe’s few survivors spoke at the stand. She was in her mid-forties at the time of the trial but had been in her late twenties when the event occured. She described the horror of waking up to a man in her bedroom, his masked face, the rope in his hand that she knew would be used to kill her. She described his actions in the way one does when one has rehearsed them so many times they lose meaning.

The judge eventually asked: What happened that saved you?

She replied: I looked in his eyes and I asked “what do you want? How do you want it baby?”

She speculated she might have been the first to speak to him. The first to try and insert her own agency into the situation.

She answered more questions about how she was unmarried and living alone; the precautions (or not) that she took as a young woman; the fact that she worked night shifts at a shirt-factory.

It was after she got off the stand when she started to dry heave. A friend managed to get her out of the courtroom before she vomited.

I asked my mother if she wanted to attend the sessions. It might help bring closure. I thought maybe she would want to see his face. To know what the ghost looked like who haunted her for all those years. She declined and said she’d rather not know more than she already knew.

She asked, ‘Do you think it’s actually him, Will? Do you think they got the right man?’

By the end of the trial, which lasted two weeks, I was able to look her in the eye and say: Absolutely.

///

A week after the break-in I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of the neighbour’s gramophone. My room was situated at the end of a hall and shared that connect wall with the neighbour’s while Vetinari’s room was next to mine but did not share the neighbour’s wall. Rather he shared his walls with my room, the living room, and one was an exterior wall overlooking an alleyway. His door faced the hallway.

The music was rhythmic and just loud enough to annoy.

I tried covering my head with the pillow but that did little. Then I tried using tissue paper as ear-plugs but that also failed.

For two hours I rolled about trying to sleep. Trying to lean into the lull of music instead of resisting. But, now that I was awake my mind was racing.

I have a tendency to lean on fire metaphors for describing what it’s like to be inside my head. Mostly just saying, ‘it’s like it’s on fire.’ Vetinari has pointed out that this is, indeed, not a metaphor. But there are times when I compare it to: tornadoes on fire; hurricanes on fire; thunderstorms of fire; hail storms of fire — I trust the point carries.

Vetinari has also informed me, relatively recently, that he has always been under the impression that my head is a “humid, plant filled environ. Perhaps not unlike an overflowing terraform.”

I disagree. Maybe if the terraform was on fire.

One of the many things I have since come to appreciate about the patrician in the many years of our acquaintance, if one may term it such, is that he is a steadily cool man. A large, still body of water with an iceberg in the middle.

I’ve digressed.

My mind, due to the incessant music, had come fully awake which meant that I was not going to sleep any time soon. Most especially in this environment. Complaining to myself I haul myself up, put on a house robe and wander out to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

The music was worse in the kitchen. I waited for the kettle to boil then gave up, took it off the stove, and tamped the fire back down.

Taking a blanket and pillow from my room I knocked on Vetinari’s door.

He opened it.

‘What?’ He asked.

‘Our neighbour’s playing his murder music again.’

Vetinari listened then nodded. He agreed, indeed the neighbour is playing music at an unprecedented noise level.

‘Unnecessary, too.’ I added. ‘Anyway, budge up, I’m kipping in here since you don’t share a wall with the freak.’

Vetinari looked ready to object but apparently ran through the pros and cons of dealing with me when I’m sleep deprived. Being a sensible man he ruled in favour of letting me in.

As we had taken the little furniture already in the flat Vetinari’s bed was not terribly large. But we both had practice of fitting more than one person in a small bed at the guild. Or, at least I had practice. We squeezed on and made it work.

An hour passed.

‘Dog-botherer, you awake?’

‘No.’

‘Is your window open?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you close it? It’s cold.’

‘No.’

I sighed, sat up, wrestled with the sheets and managed to free an arm and leaned over Vetinari to close the offending window. Vetinari waited until I had lain back down before he sat up and opened it again.

This war continued for the next fifteen minutes.

We fell asleep as dawn approached. As it was late Ember the city had cooled down considerably from the heat of summer and the surprisingly warm autumn. The sky had that low grey of Ember and December mornings coupled with a distressing amount of smog.

Untangling ourselves and adjusting everything so as to be more or less presentable we stumbled out to the kitchen for a desperate coffee and a morning fag.

Leaning out the kitchen window in a wooly jumper I began the inevitable conversation.

‘So he was murdering someone last night.’

Vetinari poked the coffee pot. I waved a hand at him.

‘You’ll disturb the grounds.’

He peered into the murky liquid. ‘I think they’re fine,’ he said.

‘Leave it alone.’

He retreated to the table with his book. I watched out of the corner of my eye then snubbed out the fag on the edge of the windowsill and closed it against the cold morning air.

‘Why else play Genuan symphonies at one in the morning?’

Vetinari considered this, ‘perhaps he’s an insomniac. Did you consider knocking on his door and asking him to turn it down?’

‘And get serial killed? I think not.’ The coffee was ready and I removed it from the stove top to pour us both a cup. ‘My mother raised me to be more intelligent than that.’

He hummed something about inherited paranoia.

I wagged a finger, ‘just because you didn’t grow up in a serial killer infested neighbourhood—’

‘I grew up in Genua until I was nine, Downey. If you want a murder capital of the Disc…’

‘That’s different.’

He disagreed. We drank our coffee in silence until Vetinari, bored with his book, broke out the crossword puzzle of the week. This, he insisted was a group activity which meant I had to participate which meant concentrating at a too early hour.

We almost missed the thud.

Our heads jerked.

Vetinari held up a hand and said, ‘not a word.’

I maintained composure although I desired to tell him off. Instead, we returned to the puzzle and spent the morning ignoring the constant, repetitious banging that came from our neighbour’s flat.

///

The noise was constant. Or near constant. Enough to drive a person mad. The noise and the claustrophobia of winter and the difficulty to spend time outside the flat.

I thank the gods that I had work during this year and a bit when we lived in the flat. Once term had started back I was at least occupied for most of the day. How Vetinari got through those two weeks of banging and knocking and dragging and music and grinding I don’t know. He did say he took up residence in a discreet cafe for large portions of it but felt exposed after a time so had to keep changing locations which was a nuisance.

When the snow came it was even more of a nuisance.

We had moved my bed into his room by this point because it was impossible to sleep in mine.

I know most are wondering: why haven’t you knocked on his door? Why haven’t you addressed the matter to your land lady?

I’m not sure why we didn’t. I know we neither wanted to be seen by him. Other than the one encounter at the beginning of our residence we had not seen him again nor him us. I think we had this mad notion of figuring it out for ourselves or that it was, perhaps, not that big of a deal. Regardless of our inefficient reasoning on the subject, we soldiered on alone.

It became almost bearable. For a short time we joked that this was completely reasonable. And besides, there are worst places to be in Ankh-Morpork. Like dead. In the cellars of the Palace. A gaol cell.

One night we stayed up late to see how long our erstwhile neighbour would play the screeching opera he had on. To fortify ourselves we had wine, fags, and a spread mostly lifted from the Assassins Guild kitchens. We sat on the velvet, mustard yellow couch (sadly no longer with us, RIP) and stared at that wall.

That off-pink wall with its stained satin wallpaper prints of poppies. If you watched it long enough it almost looked as if it was moving. Like you could be sucked into it and become one with the wallpaper.

Vetinari read a short story out loud to pass the time. It was about a woman going insane because of the wall paper. I pointed out that this might not have been the wisest choice.

We drank a bottle of wine.

We played cards and backgammon then made up drinking game called Truths where we wrote increasingly absurd questions on pieces of paper for each other to answer.

It was two in the morning. The music was still playing.

We drank a second bottle of wine.

It’s been twelve hours of opera.

Every so often our hearts skipped a beat in vain hope that the music had stopped but that was only him, our phantom neighbour, changing the record. Then the scratching of the gramophone’s music would start up again and we sank lower in our beliefs that we could survive this.

‘Ludo thinks we should just get a new flat,’ I said at the three in the morning mark. The witching hour. I made finger-cross bows at Vetinari which was entirely due to my unfortunate, inebriated state.

‘We have this one for another six months.’

‘Six months of this?’

A well timed crescendo was heard through the wall. Vetinari looked depressed.

‘Look,’ I sat up and patted his knee. ‘It’s unreasonable. We can’t sleep. I’m stuck in your room. This isn’t tenable.’

Vetinari watched from his position of lying on the couch with wine glass resting on his stomach. He tapped the stem.

‘What if we…’He petered off. The opera was finally dying down. Half three in the morning. More than twelve hours and finally, we could all rest.

A noise from the hall alerted us. There was the sound of voices so we stumbled over to the door and pressed our ears against it. One was the woman from across the hall I had met early on the other, too low to discern. Presumably our neighbour.

It became clear that his incessant noise had been bothering not only us but also the other residents of the house. She made it clear he was to keep it down or else she would inform the landlady. Whatever it was he said, she was evidently satisfied for the moment as she returned to her rooms.

‘I was going to say,’ Vetinari said as we retired for the night. ‘We could just have gone over and done what she did.’

‘No, he’s onto us.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He saw us that day then he clearly broke in to our flat. It’s what serial killers do.’ I yawned and buried my head into the pillow. I muffled out a sentence about how he was canvasing our place which is classic behaviour but was too tired to repeat myself when it became evident Vetinari hadn’t understood a word.

We both fell asleep in relative peace.

///

In the weeks following the neighbour kept the noise to a minimum and, I suspect, centred wholly on our apartment.

The knocking was right up against our wall. As were the other noises when they occurred which was at all hours. He was determined to drive us out.

The second break-in happened during those dark winter days. It was nearing Hogswatch, which neither Vetinari nor myself celebrate. Although I will admit to some pleasure in watching the old fellow visit the city.

We had made plans to order in Klatchian and spend the night with some casual gambling for chocolate money and mocking the latest attempt at poetry a colleague of ours had produced (that was my more mean spirited phase of life).

Getting ready to venture out into the cold to pick up our take-away I found a rope hidden in the back of the closet.

Being well trained at the guild means knowing all your weapons, where they are located at all times, and what their appearances are. Even the most mundane, including rope.

This was neither of ours.

I held it up to Vetinari who understood, by my face, by the thing in my hand, by the suddenly too-noctiable silence from our neighbour, what this was about.

‘That has to be one of ours,’ he said. I let him inspect it wherein he came to the conclusion that no, it was not his and it was not mine and it was not Ludo’s (the only other person who had been in the flat recently).

‘Quayside Killer did that, you know.’

‘Did what?’

I motioned to the rope, ‘hid his weapons in the houses he was targeting before striking.’

‘Seems like overkill in this situation. Considering the flat is full of weapons.’

‘When he first broke in, what books were on the table? The ones he tampered with.’

Vetinari thought then listed them off: first three were philosophy, the fourth was a history of linguistics, and the fifth _I’ll Be Gone in the Dark_.

///

Paranoia is only made worse by lack of sleep, disturbed routine, and the incessant feeling of being trapped. Which is what descended on us the day after Hogswatch when a snowstorm made it all but impossible to leave the building.

We sat by the kitchen window and watched snow pile up. It covered the roads, curbs, carriages, and carts. The softness of it, belying its heaviness when gathered in such a way. The shrieking sound of splitting wood could be heard every so often as poorly maintained roofs gave in.

We slept and read and read and slept.

Vetinari took up about five new hobbies. I smoked and graded papers.

We didn’t really speak. There wasn’t much of a need to, with the being around each other constantly.

On the fourth day of being trapped the opera was struck up again by our neighbour. Softly, this time though. It was almost pleasant. We neither commented on it. Carried on with our respective tasks.

It wasn’t until late that, in the midst of the opera, we heard something coming from our door. It was a scratching sound. The unmistakable noise of someone picking a lock.

I looked over to Vetinari who pursed his lips. It may have been from annoyance at having been disturbed in the middle of whatever self-assigned project he was on. Or it may have been because I had just mouthed “told you he was a psycho” at him.

Gathering up a single-handed crossbow I went to the door and waited a hare of a second before abruptly opening the door and shoving the crossbow into the face of the would-be intruder.

Our neighbour stood up. He had on his large coat but no hat, this time. His hair was light brown and fell over his eyes. He wore all black, but not the black of an assassin.

‘Hello,’ I greeted cheerfully. ‘Can I help you?’

His eyes were focused on the crossbow which was aimed levelly at his chest.

‘I’m a bit lost,’ he said. A surprisingly faint voice. I wasn’t sure what I had expected but it wasn’t that. ‘Thought this was my flat.’

‘Right.’

‘Lost my keys,’ he whispered.

‘Landlady’s downstairs.’

He smiled. A watery expression. Then he seemed to take in the rest of the scene beyond the crossbow - namely my wearing the robes of the assassins’ guild and Vetinari behind me in something similar. It appeared to click.

‘We’re assassins,’ I said helpfully.

‘Right,’ he replied stupidly.

‘Happy holidays.’

I closed the door. Locked and bolted it. We jammed a chair beneath it for good measure.

Rounding on my heel I said in as humble a manner I could manage, ‘I fucking told you.’

While Vetinari did hem and haw that this really proved very little. That we couldn’t know it was him who planted the rope and disturbed the books, his firmness of belief had dissipated which was as close to an admittance that I had indeed been right as I was going to get.

**///**

One of the reasons it took so long to catch Raymond Foxe was that he was practically invisible. A famous philosopher once wrote about the banality of evil and how that is what allowed such horrors of men like Snapcase to persist. That people just - do nothing. Because it is easier to do nothing, or to follow orders, than it is to resist.

In the case of Raymond Foxe it was the ordinarity of the face of evil. He looked like any other man on the street. He wasn’t well educated or suave the way paperback novels sell serial killers. He wasn’t particularly well-bred or cultured. His manners and accent were that of his class - low to middle class.

When I saw him in the courtroom I remember thinking: No, that can’t be him. That can’t be the bogeyman. The living embodiment of what people like my mother feared most. Sandy hair, brown eyes, strong nose, receding chin.

He was everything that was ordinary.

The Assassins’ Guild is licensed to hunt and kill serial killers without anyone taking a contract out of them. This is more for the reputation of the guild than for the public good, but in the end it serves both equally well.

I don’t know why the Guild never caught up with Raymond Foxe. This was during Winder’s regime and so it wasn’t as dire for us as it was under Snapcase where we were run to the ground until his death. Perhaps we were disinterested. Perhaps unable. Perhaps unwilling.

Raymond Foxe was an ex-cop. Maybe there was fear of retribution. The Watch of Winder and Snapcase was a different beast than the Watch currently. And even now, bad apples come in every barrel no matter how careful you are in picking. Some come rotten, some rot after arrival. It doesn’t matter, what matters is that it exists in every institution.

But that rot, which Raymond Foxe represented, causes harm in the subtlest of ways.

How much damage is done to a person who believes the warm place they sleep right now will be their grave? Who goes to bed night after night believing that not only for themselves but also for their children.

The author of _I'll Be Gone in the Dark_ , “Most violent criminals smash through life like human sledgehammers. They have fists for hands and can’t plan beyond their sightlines. They’re caught easily. They talk too much. They return to the scene of the crime, as conspicuous as tin cans on a bumper. But every so often a blue moon surfaces. A snow leopard slinks by.” 

Raymond Foxe was that leopard and he got through all of our nets and we _knew_ he was there. We all knew. It was stamped into the fabric of our upbringing the same way it was stamped that you don’t speak too much or else you’ll catch a crossbow bolt to the back of your head. One of those nice soft ones.

I’m no Utopianist or moralizer. I don’t believe in big things like capital letters in front of Justice and Morality and Ethics. But there are some damages done that are _uncivilized_ and that is something that I can’t abide. What is worse is when they are done whilst wearing a mask of banal goodness - like that of a cop or a doctor or a judge.

I once asked my mother what she thought his motives were. Was it because he hated women? His mother didn’t love him? His wife cheated on him? Since it was mostly women he hurt over and over again.

She didn’t have an answer. Or she did, and it was that she didn’t particularly care what his motives were because all men of his sort are the same. They’re not cliches, they’re entire humans. So sure you can boil it down to something like “mother issues” or “dadd problems” or “he wanted power” and that may capture an essence of his motives, his truth, but it will not be it’s all and in the end - none of that matters. What matters are the repercussions of his actions and who he hurt. In the end, _he_ shouldn’t matter. _We_ should.

She said, ‘did you know, one of the couples who survived. The husband chewed the bindings off his wife’s wrists so she could free them both. There is such desperate rage and love in that, I think.’

**///**

We made it through the remaining six months on our lease and then an additional six due to extenuating circumstances involving a potentially cursed armoire in the new flat I had intended to take that I shan’t get into at this time.

The odd noises did continue, although not nearly as frequently, for another two months after the man’s attempted break in. Then, silence.

Blessed, blessed silence.

On an early spring day I happened to run into our landlady and asked what happened to our neighbour. She motioned me down so as to whisper in my ear.

‘Ran off,’ she said with glee.

‘What? Really?’

‘Oh yes, she ran off with someone.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The young Mrs. Amarillo. She lived across from you. Ran off with another bloke I dare say. Her husband’s distraught.’ 

‘Oh, no - I mean that’s certainly something, but I was thinking of the queer fellow who lived next door to us.’

She gave a long drawn out ‘oh’ of realization then shrugged, ‘nothing scandalous there. His lease was up and he decided to move out.’

‘And that’s it?’

She peered at me. Of course that was it. What else was there? I wasn’t sure - surely if she had gone in there would have been a sign of some sort. A smell. That off odour from our first summer there had come and gone throughout the time but never as strong as in those early months.

Returning upstairs with fresh bread and a local rag with the latest gossip I deposited myself on the couch and waited for Vetinari to emerge from his room.

‘Her name was Mrs. Amarillo,’ I said by way of good-morning. ‘The woman across the hall.’

‘Was?’ He perched delicately on the couch armrest.

‘Our jovial landlady believes she ran off.’

‘So naturally you think she was murdered.’

‘By our serial killer neighbour! Yes. Anyway, apparently he’s moved out. Took a new flat somewhere else. I still would put money on his being a murderer.’

‘You never did give up easily,’ he replied. Tapping my feet until I moved them he slid fully onto the couch. ‘Well, we made it through a year as roommates.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And you’re in better financial standing than you were a year ago.’

‘More or less.’

‘So you won’t need a roommate going forward.’

‘No.’

He nodded and took up the gossip rag from me, ignoring my complaints that I hadn’t finished it. I sighed. Nudged him with my foot.

‘You’re all right, you know, Dog-botherer.’

‘Thank you I am sure, Downey.’

‘If you wanted to be flatmates again I’d be all right with it.’

Vetinari lowered the paper and considered the option. He asked, ‘can we get a new couch?’

‘No.’

‘Do you promise not to form hyperbolic theories about future neighbours?’

‘Only if they aren’t serial killers.’

‘Very well, I accept.’

I happily prodded him until his slapped my feet away. Getting up to make coffee I said, ‘this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Dog-botherer.’

To which he replied, ‘oh fuck off, Downey.’

///

Was our neighbour, whose name I never learned, a serial killer? A murderer? Or just a strange, lonely man living in one of the most isolating cities on the Disc? Obviously, impossible to know unless we tore down the house and dug through the walls, the foundations, the floorboards.

I think about that overturned carpet corner every one in a while. How out of place it was in that pristine, yet cold and un-lived in flat. I’ve spun theories around on that carpet corner. Entire juries in my head have decided based on that carpet corner.

In the end, it was just a carpet corner. It could mean anything.

///


	3. Chapter 3

RENOVATION LEADS TO DISCOVERY OF HUMAN REMAINS

Ankh-Morpork -- If a city is old enough there are graveyards under every house. This is what construction worker Ted Barnes thought when his men unearthed fourteen bodies earlier this week at a current renovation.

“Started in the basement. We were taking out the flooring and found the bodies. Four of them. Thought it was a graveyard.” Barnes told the Times this morning. “Then we moved to the second floor and found more. Definitely not a graveyard.”

The house under renovation was known as the Grey Gardens. Once the winter house of the Flanagan family, Dukes of Ankh-Morpork whose lined died out two hundred years ago, it has over the years been a hotel, a brothel, apartments, a rooming house and most recently office spaces until it was purchased last autumn by the Ankh-Morpork Theatre Company.

Intending to the turn this imposing building into a new theatre the Company hired Barnes’ construction to complete the gutting and renovation.

“It’s been slow going,” Barnes said. “Aside from permits and licenses that are required now for major renos, there was the discovery of the bodies.”

The Watch was called in a precautionary measure but Barnes said he expected it to be turned over to archeologists but instead, it’s been turned into a crime scene.

“They’re not old enough to warrant historical research,” Captain Angua of the City Watch informed the Times. “We’ve identified the remains of their clothes and found them to be about 30 years old, based on the fashion. However, we’re waiting for preliminary results from Igor before we can give anything more definite.”

When asked, she did say that there were signs of violence but would not confirm if it was the cause of their deaths.

News of the bodies spread quickly through the neighbourhood and many speculated about a mass murderer in their midst.

“There’s no cause for public alarm,” Commander Vimes of the City Watch said. “The remains are over three decades old and we do not know the circumstances that lead them to be buried in this building. We are currently investigating and I urge everyone to remain calm. There is absolutely no cause for alarm.”

Neighbours think differently.

Mrs. Nasir, who lives a few blocks down from the Grey Gardens, told the Times that she is worried enough to let her children out as it is, let alone with a murderer out there who has remained hidden for over thirty years.

“If no one caught him then, who is to say anyone is going to catch him now?” She explained. “I feel for the poor souls in that building. That’s not the right way for anyone to go. We’re waiting to hear more of course but I’m worried.”

Mr. Zhou agrees. Elderly and mostly confined to his ground-level floor he is concerned about being unable to defend himself should someone break in.

“They see themselves in the news again,” he said. “Then they get ideas. They think: I got away with it once - why not try more? And now I’ll get attention for it.”

Mr. Zhou lives with his grandson, Liam 15, and his daughter Vivian, 40. His grandson, who is attending the Assassins’ Guild, elaborated, “it’s something we learned about at the Guild. How to keep an eye on each other, you know. Make sure you’re not going to end up like that guy. But most of these whackos do it for the thrill. They want you to see them. But he’s old now, yeah? Easy peezy lemon squeezy to take him out.”

Mr. Zhou was not convinced by his grandson’s calm view of the matter.

“I can’t move around easily. I have two walking sticks and bad lungs. I worry as it is, let alone with that horror being brought back.”

With investigations ongoing into the identities of these bodies and the circumstances that brought them to this dismal end the Watch are asking anyone who might have information to come forward.

**///**

It takes Downey only an hour from the delivery of the morning papers to arrive at the Oblong Office. He drops the headline on the desk with a look that can only be described as pure triumph and glee.

‘I was right,’ he says in case Vetinari hadn’t caught on.

‘The investigation is ongoing,’ the Patrician replies evenly.

‘Oh for the love of - fourteen bodies in that miserable apartment we shared. Fourteen!’

‘Yes.’

‘All from roughly thirty years ago.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Gods you must admit I was onto something.’

‘Maybe it was the landlady.’

Downey snaps that Vetinari is being purposefully obtuse. Just admit that he, Downey, was right and that there was a serial killer in the building. Vetinari sighs then gives a very small, hardly perceptible nod.

Downey grins, ‘victory.’

‘You’re really taking too much joy in this,’ Vetinari says.

‘I’m so rarely right where you are concerned so please, let me have this.’

Vetinari, feeling indulgent, allows it. Downey looks about, spots a chair and drags it over. When the servant enters with Vetinari’s morning tea and egg. Downey signals them, ‘a coffee for me.’

‘I don’t believe I invited you to stay.’

The servant looks terrified.

Downey nudges the paper, ‘we must theorize.’

‘Must we?’

‘Yes. You made a good point about the landlady. I take my coffee black and my egg soft boiled.’

The servant continues to look terrified.

‘And I’ll have some toast,’ Downey says. ‘With butter, no jam.’

‘I will repeat that I didn’t invite you to stay.’

‘It’s for old times’ sake.’

Vetinari purses his lips then waves to the servant, ‘go on. He’ll be served.’

Downey settles into the chair with pleasure. As Vetinari appears disinclined to begin Downey drawls, ‘so the landlady? I hadn't thought of her. It is interesting that two people disappeared at the same time. Our mystery neighbour and that woman from across the hall.’

‘She had access to the basement and the flats when no one was in.’

‘But what about the man trying to break in to our apartment?’

‘He might have been telling the truth.’

‘Uh huh.’

Vetinari shrugs, ‘or he might have been breaking in for other reasons. Petty theft, that sort of thing. To snoop and see if we were serial killers.’

‘And his noise making?’

Vetinari ponders this for a time. That was, indeed, quite odd. While he does not discount people being capable of some of the strangest choices that one was excessive to say the least.

‘Undiagnosed mental illness?’ He suggests after a time.

Downey nods, this is entirely possible. He thanks the servant as his coffee, egg and toast are brought in. ‘That’s very true. Or it was the landlady. We never knew when he was in or out so he could have been out. Perhaps that was his secondary flat.’

‘Or the landlady was him.’

‘I knew you’d get into this once you started.’

Vetinari had the wherewithal to look affronted at the suggestion. He is only doing this to entertain Downey and, as Downey said, for “old time’s sake.”

‘Have you spoken to your mother?’ Vetinari asks after they take a quiet moment to eat.

‘Why would I do that?’

‘I just assumed, with her fixation on serial killers.’

‘She isn’t fixated. She had a healthy and entirely rational fear of that one.’ Downey finished his coffee. ‘I spoke to her yesterday when the news first broke on the Ankh-Morpork grapevine. She asked me to install new bolts on all the doors.’

‘Right.’

‘She’s elderly. This is a reasonable thing to do when you’re elderly and living alone. Not that my father would have been much help when he was alive.’

Vetinari concedes this point and retreats from the subject of parents which was always a sticky one for Downey.

‘She’s tiny,’ Downey says to explain himself - his mother - her fears. ‘I take entirely after my father. She’s maybe this tall,’ he holds up his hand to demonstrate. ‘And quite small-framed. Her fears were, and are, reasonable. Anyway, she’s had a different experience of Ankh-Morpork than you and I.’

‘That’s quite true.’ Vetinari pauses, then holds up his hand to echo Downey’s. ‘This tall?’

‘My father and my mother are a tale of opposites.’

They end their breakfast when the Commander appears to give his morning report on the case which is as cold as a December night. He is startled to see Downey present, usually the lord not presenting any guild updates until the end of the day due to teaching schedules.

Downey puts his hat on and takes his leave. At the door he asks, ‘Commander, one of the victims, was she wearing a yellow dress with red shoes?’

Vimes says, ‘uh, yes, why?’

‘Mrs. Amarillo. Try looking up her husband. He should be about our age.’

Tipping his hat he disappears into the hallway.

**///**

The Quayside Killer took over fifteen years to catch. The Grey Gardens Killer will possibly be one who fades away into the night. Who will be only what they left behind. Re-sealed floorboards. An overturned carpet corner. A paved basement. Fourteen dead bodies.

We know what the victims of the Quayside Killer experienced. Enough survived to tell us that Raymond Foxe smelled of cinnamon aftershave, that his voice was rough, that he preferred baby lotion to oil for lubricant, that he could leap over fences between those tightly nit Ankh-Morpork yards with ease.

What did the police find after he left? Jimmied house locks. A green-handled hatched in a hedge. A cord hanging from a fence post two blocks away. A Chetty Brewer's Agatean Pale Ale beer bottle. Smears of paint on the side of a banister. A woman’s bruised hand, numb for hours. The outline of a crossbow in dust. At least twelve dead bodies. Over fifty assaults. Countless living in fear, in grief, in loss.

But what has the Grey Gardens Killer left behind beside the bodies? The Watch have found only scraps of fabric, tangles of bones buried together, a severed hand. These are skeletons they are working with, there is no flesh to read a narrative out of. No one has yet to come forward saying: I survived. I might not have seen them but I heard, I smelt. I know their perfume or their aftershave. I know their hands.

It is early days in the investigation but I don’t hold out hope for a swift conclusions, or indeed, any conclusion at all. It’s been thirty years. Whoever did these crimes has long since disappeared into the night. All we can do is piece together the dead and try and find something like answers. 

**///**


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